


tender mercies (of a horny angel)

by QixxiQ



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: (but they talk about it and it's fine), Aftercare, Anal Play, Aziraphale Has a Penis (Good Omens), Clothed Sex, Common Cold, Crowley Has A Vulva (Good Omens), Crowley Has a Penis (Good Omens), Dirty Talk, Dom/sub Undertones, Fever, Gentle Dom Aziraphale (Good Omens), He/Him Pronouns For Aziraphale (Good Omens), He/Him Pronouns For Crowley (Good Omens), Hurt/Comfort, Light Bondage, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Nanny Crowley (Good Omens), Other, Penis In Vagina Sex, Praise Kink, Service Top Crowley (Good Omens), Sexting, She/Her Pronouns for Crowley (Good Omens), Sick Crowley (Good Omens), Sickfic, Sub Crowley (Good Omens), caretaking kink, handjob, rectal thermometer, sneeze kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-04
Updated: 2020-05-04
Packaged: 2021-03-02 17:00:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,497
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24000226
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QixxiQ/pseuds/QixxiQ
Summary: Crowley doesn't really understand what Aziraphale gets out of this, but that doesn't mean he wants it to stop.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 15
Kudos: 159





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> If you did not come here from my tumblr, please please read through all the tags first. <3 Don't get surprised with a niche kink! XD
> 
> The mild dub con tag is there as a precaution for some kinda kinking on someone without explicit consent stuff, but it all works out fine and isn't a big deal. There's no psa here lol.
> 
> Much thanks to Sunni! Totes wouldn't have been able to do it without the encouragement and suggestions! <3<3<3
> 
> (also, I can not get the darn footnote to link so, sorry y'all, your gonna have to scroll)

It’s not the first time Crowley has canceled plans. It is, however, the first time that Crowley’s canceled because he was sick, or at least the first time he’s told Aziraphale about it. The invention of the telephone makes it so much easier and, by the sixties, Crowley’s managed to convince Aziraphale to have one installed in his shop, just for an emergency like this. 

“It’s me,” Crowley sniffs, holding the handset against his shoulder to cough roughly into his fist. “I know you wanted to…” He sniffs again, harder, trying to hold back the prickle in his inflamed sinuses. “Wanted to… hehh’isshxt!” 

“Oh,” Aziraphale says. “You’re not well," he says, sounding oddly flat like he’s speaking without breathing. “That’s…” He swallows noisily on the other end of the line. “That’s too bad, Crowley.” 

Crowley stops scrubbing at his leaking nose with the back of his wrist and frowns at the phone. “Yeah, know you were excited about the…” He wracks his fogged mind for where Aziraphale had even wanted to go.

There’s a swishing noise on the other end and Crowley pictures the angel frantically shaking his head. “No no,” Aziraphale swallows again and titters. “I’m not… it’s perfectly fine, Crowley. You’re… you’re feeling poorly and shouldn’t be out. Of course not. I understand completely.” 

“I’ll, ugh,” Crowley breathes slowly. “Gonna make it uhh… uhh-eesss’hetch!… up to you.” He wishes he had brought tissues with him to the phone and settles for sniffing harshly in a poor attempt to move the congestion out of his voice.

There’s a loud silence from Aziraphale. “Do you need me to come over?” he finally ventures. “Of course I will,” he adds quickly. “I could bring... soup? Or if you need anything else?”

Crowley hazily imagines what Aziraphale coming over might entail. Probably enough tea to drown him and the angel puttering around his flat ostensibly tidying up while actually making more clutter. “Nah,” he pinches between his eyes, the pressure in his sinuses growing. Satan, he needs to blow his nose. “No need to… I’ll be fine in a day or two.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale says, and he sounds disappointed but quickly covers it. “Oh, of course! You’ll be right as rain, see you then, ta!”

The line clicks dead and Crowley can’t muster up the strength to try and decipher all of that weirdness. Instead, he slinks off to bed and sleeps for two days straight.

When he next sees Aziraphale the angel gives him a quick once over, chirps about how Crowley’s looking tip-top, and doesn’t bring it up again.

The demon gets the chance to see Aziraphale’s caretaking in action years later when they’re watching over Warlock Dowling. It seems as though the entire household has come down with something that the blessed antichrist brought back from school and Nanny is no exception. She’s a sniffly, clogged up mess by the end of the day and wants nothing more than to collapse into bed and not wake up for a week, even if she actually has to be up before dawn.

There’s a knock on her door and she nearly rips it off the hinges as she wrenches it open. Aziraphale, startled by the vicious swing of the door, blinks owlishly at her scowl. He’s changed out of his gardener disguise and flutters a hand when Crowley’s eyes snap up and down the hallway. 

“No one will see me, I made sure.” He bustles around her, arms ladened with a covered tray.

“Not really in the mood for a midnight nosh, angel.” She’s still standing by the open door, hoping he’ll pick up a clue and leave.

Aziraphale shakes his head, busily laying out everything he’s brought onto her desk. “I wouldn’t think so.” There’s more on the tray than humanly possible and Nanny’s desk is soon overflowing with bowls and cups and hell knows what else. “I hear you’ve come down with quite the nasty little bug.”

Crowley’s eyes narrow. “You’ve heard…?”

“Oh yes,” Aziraphale says, turning and pining Crowley with an arched eyebrow. “From all the way across the garden.”

Under the angel’s cool gaze Crowley flushes, caught out over the failed attempts to stifle her heavy, thick sneezes. “‘S nothing,” she mutters, eyes on the floor. She hears Aziraphale hum thoughtfully and then the angel is at her elbow, closing her door, and leading her to sit on the bed. 

“We’ll just see about that, shall we,” he says gently, giving her elbow a light squeeze. 

It’s the most contact Aziraphale has ever initiated and Crowley’s left reeling. Then there’s a finger under her chin, lifting her head up, and catching her off guard. She squirms, unsure where to look as Aziraphale peers at her. His eyes drift across her face and finally settle on her raw, chapped nose just as she feels a drop of moisture start to leak out. Crowley hurriedly sniffs, cheeks burning.

“No.” He tuts, an edge of sternness glinting across his eyes. “That won’t do.” He moves back to her desk. “I know just what will help that unfortunate nose of yours.” He sets a bowl on her nightstand, fills it with hot water from a kettle, and leaves the steam to curl gracefully in the air as he positions her, hands searing wherever he touches. Her hair, already taken out of its severe style, falls loosely forward when he encourages her to lean over the bowl, and he sweeps it back, knitting his fingers through it and holding it in a knot against the back of her neck. “Deep breaths now,” he instructs. 

Crowley breathes. It’s slow going but the steam never cools and soon she can feel it working its way through the congestion, a bit like a dam slowly breaking. Her hand scrambles for the box of tissues on the other side of the bowl, but Aziraphale stops her, guiding her hand back to rest on her thigh. “Just let it come, Crowley,” he advises her, while his thumb circles calmingly over her knuckles. 

It tickles, the agonizingly sluggish drip as her sinuses open up. At one point Crowley makes to sit up, the urge to sneeze overwhelming, but Aziraphale’s hand tightens in her hair… a heavy press against her nape that keeps her bent forward. Her breath hitches. “Ngh,” she squirms and squeezes her eyes shut. “‘M gon… gonna…” Aziraphale’s thumb keeps up its steady, circling pressure. “hehh-ehh’iitischh! essHH-hhett’chx!” Crowley groans and sneezes again messily, sinuses fully clearing. She doesn’t dare sniffle, head hanging over the bowl of still steaming water.

Aziraphale’s hand in her hair pulls, light yet firm, and tips her back. “My goodness.” His hand leaves her thigh and she can hear him shaking out a handkerchief, the fabric rustling quietly. “Doesn’t that feel better?” She’s fairly sure he doesn’t expect an answer so she leaves him in silence while he cleans her up, soft brushes against her tender skin. The handkerchief presses around her nose, gripping gently. “Blow now,” he guides, fingers working the edges of her nose. 

She blows and feels pounds lighter. It’s not just the congestion relief. There’s a wild kind of simplicity that leaves her feeling loose and untethered, unconcerned with anything… certainly not with the warmth spreading into the cloth the angel’s holding. Crowley blinks her eyes open when Aziraphale’s hand trails out of her hair and delicately down her back while his other hand finishes with her nose. There’s a sudden, cozy softness enveloping her and she glances down. Under her robe, where once was a risque slip of barely sensible sleeping attire, she’s now dressed in dark flannel. If Crowley looks close enough she can see the barest pattern of tartan. “Aziraphale,” she mutters. 

Aziraphale waves a hand at her dismissively and replaces the bowl of water with one filled with broth. “It’s no wonder you caught cold… dressing like that.”

She rolls her eyes but still lets him tip her back against pillows that are fluffier than the ones she had before and help her slide under the blankets. When he hands her the broth his fingers linger against hers a moment longer than necessary. Crowley isn’t the first to pull away.

He doesn’t stay after that, beyond making sure she has a hot cup of tea ready on the nightstand.

Later, after the world fails to end and they fail to lose to heaven and hell, Crowley and Aziraphale tentatively fall into a physical relationship. At first, simple, commonplace wonders like holding hands and bumping against each other with no thought of recourse. This gradually extends to kissing, soft and slow, and then harder and more desperate… all teeth and tongue and sloppy passion… until one day they flounder up to Aziraphale’s flat above the shop, recently remade with extravagant lavishness, shedding clothing along the way so their hands can roam as much as they please. They don’t come up for air for a week and that’s only so Crowley can run out for takeaway before they’re at it again, exploring every possible inch of each other.

It’s only after that, after they figure out what makes the other gasp and twitch and moan, that Aziraphale asks, in fits and starts, for something he feels is a little more risque. “If you’d find it amiable, that is,” Aziraphale stumbles, tongue darting out to wet his lips. “You can say no, of course! If you don’t… if it doesn’t sound like something you’d enjoy.” 

There’s nothing that Azirapahle could ask for, Crowley thinks, that he wouldn’t enjoy doing. “Anything, angel. Sky’s the limit.” He captures Aziraphale’s hands between his and cradles them earnestly. “The whole universe really. Do you want the moon?” The demon looks up, thoughtful, and then pins Aziraphale with a saucily quirked eyebrow. “On the moon? Bit of the ol’ no gravity rumpty pumpty?” He winks and whatever nervousness flees Aziraphale with a vicious snort as he collapses back against the couch, shaking with laughter.

“Oh my, no,” he finally manages. “I don’t think we have to go that far. Yet.”

What Aziraphale does want, and what Crowley is more than willing to give, is a bit like revisiting all their greatest hits, and some that had only been idle thoughts, throughout history. Except this time with more control, more excitement, and of course more reward.

They had gone through dozens already. The back room of the book shop pushed back, opening into a wide-open, versatile area that could be staged in any way they desired for the main events, though the scenes often ended in Azirpahale’s plush upstairs bedroom anyway.

Oysters in Rome leading to Crowley losing control and ravishing Aziraphale in an aphrodisiac induced craze, not even able to control himself enough to wait until they left the restaurant to shove his hand up the unsuspecting angel's toga.

Seeing one of dear William's plays and having the bear escape, which meant they needed to hide, which led to Aziraphale being so distraught that the only way to calm him was Crowley making him come repeatedly through his tights while whispering sonnets in his ear.

The Bastille, where the chains stayed on much, much longer and multiple rounds of frantic ‘the guard could come back any moment’ fucking had turned into an entire weekend of Aziraphale drizzling Crowley with crepe fillings and then licking him clean while trying not to stain his perfectly persevered outfit.

Intricate little scenes, always well planned, even if they did go off script occasionally 1, and this one was no different. It had taken weeks to work out the details around what each wanted, what each could give, and what the desired outcome would be. 

“Sex,” Crowley had said while tapping his wine glass after Aziraphale had asked what he hoped to get out of the scene. “Mind-blowing amounts of sex.” and Aziraphale had rolled his eyes.

What they had not, and could not have, planned for was Crowley coming down with a cold. 

He wakes the morning of with a scratchy throat and a slightly runny nose and by the time he’s dressed and ready to head to the bookshop the congestion has settled in not only his head but beginning in his chest as well. He thinks about canceling as he blows his nose and tosses the tissue into an already half-full waste paper bin, but can’t bring himself to do it. He knows Aziraphale is already there, primed and ready, just waiting for Crowley to appear… he’s already got the confirmation text. So he blows his nose again, straightens his hat, and heads to the Bentley. 

Crowley makes sure to ring the shop bell loudly enough for Aziraphale to hear him in the converted back room. He waits a moment, adjusting his outfit, before he hears a muffled thump from the back. And then, Aziraphale's voice.

“Oh, what a _fool_ I was,” the angel laments, loudly and dramatically, voice carrying through the walls... but only as far as Crowley since the outer walls had been soundproofed early on. “How will I ever get out of this _dreadful_ predicament?”

With a wiggled swagger Crowley falls into character. He makes a few banging noises, just as though he were fighting a terrible horde, and then takes a moment in front of the door, letting Aziraphale stew in the silence, wondering about the scuffle beyond his view.

Then, energetic and with a large amount of flair, Crowley throws the door wide. “Aziraphale!” he calls out, sharp form back-lit dashingly as he stands in the doorway. “I found you!” He strides determinedly into the room, following the thin path of light that leads him to his captured angel. 

Aziraphale is lashed to a chair, wrists and ankles bound with thick, heavy rope, stripped down to his slacks and shirtsleeves as he had previously been divested of his suit jacket, vest, and bowtie in order to make him feel exposed and vulnerable. “Crowley!” he swoons. “What are _you_ doing _here_?” He tears his gaze away from the demon, forcing himself to not look relieved, but he can’t help himself and his eyes skitter back to the dashing form before him.

Crowley struts over, smooth and cocky. “Saving you from these half-wit nazi spies, angel.” He winks over the edge of his glasses. This is so much better without the church. Loads better without the nazis too.

“Oh dear!” Aziraphale’s lip wobbles enticingly, eyes wide and sparkling and extra pretty in the glow from the slice of light hitting his face. “If only I had realized earlier!”

“And I,“ Crowley sniffs. Not now. He’s supposed to untie Aziraphale now. “I’ll…” He sniffs again. Supposed to sweep him up into his arms. “I’m--” Carry him to the waiting Bentley. His breath hitches, shoulders slumping as he breaks character. “Wait a tick,” Crowley huffs and holds up a finger.

Aziraphale shifts against the bindings, waiting as Crowley digs around in his pockets for a handkerchief. “Crowley…?” 

“‘S fine…” He scrubs at his nose, desperate to drive the itch away. “Just got... “ The sneeze sneaks up on him, rushing out before he gets the handkerchief fully in place. “heheshh’ighx!”

“Oh! Are you--” Aziraphale blinks and shuts his mouth with a click of teeth when Crowley sneezes again. And then once more. He waits for another sneeze, but Crowley sniffles instead. “Dust?” Aziraphale asks. The hazy look he gets over the handkerchief answers for him.

Crowley blows lightly and ends up coughing against his shoulder, shrugging when he meets Aziraphale’s concerned gaze. “Would it help if I said I felt better earlier?”

Aziraphale miracles away the bindings he’d so carefully tied himself in.

“No, angel, wait,” Crowley swipes under his nose. “We can still do this. I just…” he trails off. “I-- esh’ishxx!” He buries his nose in the cloth as another sneeze rips out of him. 

“It’s not a matter of can,” Aziraphale says, patiently, eyes roaming Crowley’s bent form before looking away. “This can’t possibly be enjoyable for you if you’re ill, my dear.” He stands, brushing himself down to smooth away imaginary wrinkles while Crowley blows his nose again. “You should have told me,” he tsks. “We could have rescheduled.” 

Crowley pulls off his glasses and tucks them into his front suit pocket. “Didn’t want to disappoint,” he sniffs, stowing the soggy handkerchief away and scrubbing at his nose with the back of his hand. 

Aziraphale swallows, face tight but sincere. “You could never disappoint me, Crowley.” The demon glows under the praise, puffing up a bit before he sways, hand coming up to pinch between his eyes and Aziraphale steps closer, wrapping a hand around Crowley’s waist. “I’m not sure you should drive back like this.” 

Not driving back to his cold flat, just to lie in bed alone and miserable, sounds wonderful to Crowley, but he doesn’t want to presume that Aziraphale wants him here, or if Aziraphale is honestly offering anything at all beyond worried advice. He sighs. “I’ll make it alright.” 

”I hardly think so,” the angel shakes his head. “You're barely standing as is. If you wanted,” Aziraphale suggests. “You could stay here?” He flutters his unoccupied hand. “Unless you’d rather stay in your own flat… you’d probably be more comfortable…” he trails off in thought. “I could drive you.” 

Crowley raises an eyebrow at him.

“No, no, of course, that won’t work.” He worries his bottom lip between his teeth. “But you should be in bed, Crowley,” the angel murmurs, half to himself. 

Crowley tilts back a little and lets a smirk curl his lips over white, sharp teeth. “That was the eventual goal, angel," he gives a lascivious wink, gesturing at the trappings of their distressed damsel game. “Upstairs?” Any sexiness he had going for him is crushed by another sneeze that throws him off balance.

“It’s not really the same, I’m afraid,” Aziraphale says as he steadies him. With a tender push, he guides Crowley away from the sparse artifice of their nazi bondage romp and up to the cozy warmth of his flat above the bookshop. 

“Bedroom?” Crowley sniffs, almost against Aziraphale’s ear as the angel gently removes Crowley’s hat and jacket, hanging them on the hook in the hallway. He knows his way, been here enough times, but he wants Aziraphale to take the lead. He remembers the last time he was unwell. Remembers the authoritative way Aziraphale had breezed into his room and taken charge. But there’s none of that sureness now. The angel seems jumpy and scattered and almost like he doesn’t know what to do with Crowley. It’s… well, Crowley doesn’t want to think it’s disappointing, but maybe he was warming to the idea of a repeat performance. 

“Yes, of course, of course.” Aziraphale places a light hand against Crowley’s back. “Right this way. And then some tea, perhaps.”

In the bedroom, Crowley sits on the edge of the bed and watches Aziraphale dither. The angel miracles up a set of pajamas and sets them on the bed, a neatly folded pile of deep, rich red. “There… that's… yes.” Aziraphale nods and paces back to the closet to retrieve another blanket. “You'll be needing…” He holds the bundle of fabric close to him, fingers bunching it tightly until he forces himself to set the blanket down at the end of the bed. 

Crowley sniffles and scrubs at his nose, patting around his pockets and feeling for where he put his handkerchief. His nose is leaking and he can't… did he leave it in his jacket? Must have. He's just about to miracle another one when Aziraphale all but shoves a fresh handkerchief at him. Crowley stares at the fabric, and then at Aziraphale's hand, and finally up at Aziraphale himself. The angel is holding himself still, a falsely calm look plastered on his face, like when he's trying too hard to appear human. 

Crowley thinks about taking the handkerchief, plucking it from Aziraphale's fingers with a mumbled thank you, but the memory of Aziraphale cupping his nose, softly and firmly encouraging him to blow, is forefront in his mind. The slight widening of Aziraphale's eyes, a dawning realization, makes Crowley think that Aziraphale remembers too and he fits his fingers around Aziraphale's wrist instead, tugging him down to the bed before raising the angel’s hand to his dripping nose in a clear invitation. Aziraphale swallows, flushes prettily, and, Crowley's sure, stops breathing. Crowley sniffles again and let's go of Aziraphale's wrist, letting his eyes slide shut as Aziraphale dabs under his glistening nostrils. 

The light touch sparks an itch deep inside. “I'm gonn...huh--" he scrunches and wiggles his nose. “ehh… hehh...”

Aziraphale leans closer, steadying his head with one hand as Crowley's breath catches, the sneeze building.

"Azira--" he all but whines, the itch insistently becoming an almost painful burn. He can only hold it until the angel covers his nose. “ehh-iitissh! hehh'ngxx!”

Aziraphale soothes him, hand flitting down his back in a comforting gesture as he wipes the mess away. He pulls Crowley closer with a sigh, smoothing the hand down his back more firmly when he feels Crowley sag bodily against him, fitting together in a comforting hug. The demon’s tight muscles relax under the soft, repeated touch until his breath hitches, another sneeze building. 

Crowley tries to pull back, but Aziraphale is well wrapped around him now, pulling him tightly against his body, and there’s nowhere for him to go. His only choice is to bury his face against his angel’s shoulder. He shudders, a wet sneeze rocking him tighter against Aziraphale. "Ugh, sorry,” he groans, not willing to pull back and face the peak embarrassment of seeing a wet spot.

Aziraphale's hand never falters in the slow, steady strokes over his back. “No need to apologize, my dear.”

This close, Crowley gradually becomes aware that his hand is resting alongside the effort Aziraphale had made, still semi-hard from the thrill of being bound. Disappointment curls in his stomach over leaving Aziraphale unfulfilled and he drags his hand over the firm bulge. “I could still…” he offers with a stuffy sniff, face still jammed against Aziraphale.

Aziraphale grabs his hand before Crowley can do more than a quick squeeze. “It’s fine, just leave it.” The rebuke comes off harsh and scolding and he softens the bite by settling Crowley’s hand down with a light pat and a comforting rub. “It’s really not important.”

Crowley opens his mouth to argue, but a short, thick sneeze slips out instead. Pressed so tightly against Aziraphale he can feel as he twitches and grows harder. He sniffs, clogged and soggy, and feels the angel’s dick twitch again. Oh, Crowley thinks. His foggy mind works over this new information. Not a leftover effect from the bondage then. He drags himself back and glances down meaningfully and then back up at Aziraphale.

The angel looks horrified, eyes wide and panicked like he’s been caught with his hand in a particularly odd and kinky cookie jar.

Crowley deliberately removes the handkerchief from Aziraphale's slack fingers and blows. It's a horrid wet gurgling noise that relieves some of the throbbing pressure in his sinuses and he arches an eyebrow at Aziraphale over the cloth. “This is really doing it for you, then?”

Aziraphale’s hands flutter, eyes skipping around. “Honestly, Crowley,” he huffs, a near-hysterical grin flashing across his face as if the demon is being patently ridiculous. But there’s no hiding the blush that’s creeping up his neck to the tips of his ears or the increasing tightness in his trousers. 

“What is it?” Crowley asks. It isn’t a demand, he isn't angry... if anything, he's curious and he aims for as much neutrality as possible. He was enjoying himself, sure, but in a warm and comforting kind of way, not a damp spot through your pants kind of way. He wipes at his nose a final time before turning all his attention to Aziraphale, biting back the urge to be self-deprecating. The look on the angel’s face stops him from saying anything at all and he waits, giving Aziraphale all the time he needs.

And he does take his time, face working through a variety of emotions. How does one even describe it… the vulnerability, the openness, the way that Crowley, in Aziraphale’s eyes, always so cool and sure, becomes positively, stunningly wrecked and laid bare by a simple cold, and that it’s Aziraphale, an angel, a demon's hereditary enemy, who gets to witness it?

“You’re exquisitely beautiful like this, my dear,” Aziraphale settles on, prim and earnest. “You...” Aziraphale can't look at him while he says it, the blush covering his entire face now. “You look so deliciously vulnerable.”

Crowley blinks, slow and languid, chapped lips parted to draw in a wheezing, reedy breath. “Yeah?”

Aziraphale nods and with a deep breath turns to face Crowley. He brushes his thumb gently against Crowley’s flushed cheek. “And I am incredibly honored that you allow me to see you like this.” He cups Crowley’s other cheek, cradling the demon’s face in his hands, both thumbs now brushing, beginning to work at the pressure in his clogged sinuses. “Allow me to care for you…?” Aziraphale presses harder and Crowley nods, eyes glazed as he soaks in the sensation, loosely pliant in Aziraphale’s hold, allowing the angel to tilt his head this way and that. “What a precious gift you're giving me.” His thumbs find the tender spots on either side of Crowley’s nose and begin slow, circular motions.

Crowley’s breathing deepens and his nostrils flare. “Hnghh,” he says, eloquently.

“So lovely, so sensitive.” Aziraphale bears down, sending a spike of intense, almost painful, itch pricking up Crowley’s nose. “Your poor nose,” he pouts, dragging a finger, feather-light, down the side of Crowley’s twitching, pinkened nose, sweeping up around to the tip. Shaking out a new handkerchief he brings it up just in time for Crowley’s eyes to flutter shut as a harsh set of sneezes tumble out. He works Crowley’s nose through the cloth, drawing away the wetness and drying just inside his nostrils. The demon groans, overly tender, and sinks against Aziraphale’s shoulder. 

As Aziraphale rubs down the length of his side, whispering complimentary, soothing nothings, Crowley slides his hand across the angel’s lap. He can feel the heat and the hardness through the fabric and he ghosts his fingers across the tented material teasingly. 

“Crowley!” Aziraphale shifts away and pushes his hand back. “I already told you it wasn’t important.” He shakes his head, gently holding Crowley’s wandering hand at bay. “It’s not right. You’re ill.” He pats Crowley’s hand, but the demon is having none of it.

“Aziraphale,” Crowley pleads, voice soft and stuffy, and he slides his hand back over the angel’s clothed dick. “I want to do this for you. Let me take care of you, angel.” He sways, tempting and seductive, as his talented fingers slide Aziraphale’s zipper down.

“I believe, um... that’s my line, dear,” Aziraphale points out, gasping when Crowley brushes against his newly exposed member.

He looks brutally conflicted, but Crowley can feel the heated movement under his palm, so he sniffles wetly, thick and hard and on purpose. Aziraphale’s eyes squeeze shut, almost shamefully, and Crowley can feel him leaking. With a slight tightening of his hand, the rest of Aziraphale’s resolve falls with a jerky nod and shattered groan. 

Once he has the go-ahead Crowley acts. If he leaves this up to Aziraphale it’ll probably be slow and gentle and tender and Crowley will definitely fall asleep in the middle of it and how embarrassing would that be, so, with a burst of demonic strength, Crowley pulls Aziraphale across the bed. He rolls him onto his back, straddling his thighs, and miracles them both fully naked before the angel knows what happened. Crowley’s head reels, clogged sinuses redistributing at the sudden movement, but still manages to throw Aziraphale a rakish smile.

“Oh,” Aziraphale huffs, stunned. And then another, neutral sort of “oh” as he glances between Crowley’s legs.

Even though it's not a bad noise Crowley stills, his ruddy vaginal lips framed by an artfully tended bush poised a mere breath away from kissing the eager head of Aziraphale’s penis. "You don't like it?" 

"No, no," Aziraphale assures him. “It's lovely, Crowley.” It wasn’t like he hadn’t seen Crowley with a pussy before, simply that every time with Crowley was a surprise... like someone knowing exactly what you’d like for christmas even if you never said anything.

“I could change it," Crowley slyly offers, the rakish smile growing wider as he sinks down, engulfing Aziraphale in slick, fever fueled heat. "If you'd rather…" He clenches around Aziraphale’s prick.

Aziraphale bites off a groan. "N-no, this is perfectly acceptable." He takes a deep, steadying breath. “More than acceptable.” His tongue works thickly around his mouth.

Crowley sniffs and shrugs like he hasn’t a care in the world about what Aziraphale may enjoy. "It was easier, is all," he says nonchalantly, rolling his hips and delighting in the noises Aziraphale makes beneath him. A knowing chuckle bubbles up, but it turns into a cough as it scrapes past his throat. Angling towards his shoulder he tries to ease the tickle carefully, afraid that anything more would send him wracking into a phlegmy mess.

Aziraphale sits up, hand reaching out in concern. He wraps his fingers around Crowley's hip, steadying the demon when Crowley reels back, tightening his thighs around Aziraphale at the sudden shifting. "Are you sure you're--"

“I’m not dying, Aziraphale.” He settles more firmly, seating himself fully onto the angel's dick. "Might do, though, if you don't get a wiggle on," he suggests, dark and low, snaking his hips back and forth.

Aziraphale’s eyes roll up and he wraps his arms around Crowley’s waist. “You really shouldn’t be exerting yourself, you know,” he scolds without any real heat behind it, hips shifting around, trying to build friction from below. “You’re not feeling well.” His hands tighten against Crowley’s back.

Crowley sniffs and hooks his own arms over Aziraphale’s shoulders, pulling them closer together, foreheads touching. “I know,” he murmurs, letting the congestion in his head thickly coat his voice. “‘M not feeling well at all.” He rocks his hips, rising and falling on Aziraphale’s rock hard length. “I’b so con... congested,” he breath catches and Aziraphale’s hands begin to roam up and down his back.

“You sound awful, you poor thing,” Aziraphale breathes, nails scratching lightly along the demon’s spine.

“Terrible, really.” Breathing slowly, as much as he can through the stuffiness, Crowley works on building up a sneeze. He bumps his nose against Aziraphale’s, breath hitching, snagging, bringing him closer to the edge. “‘M gonna… hehh…” 

Aziraphale whines, needy and wanting, hands gripping tight as he surges inside Crowley, teetering on the edge of satisfaction. "Y-yes, you've a dreadful cold, haven't you?"

Crowley turns his head, brushing cheeks with Aziraphale. “Mmm-hmm... c-can't... ehh… gon... hu-nghh.” He skims his flaring nose against the shell of Azirapha’s ear. “Al.. almost… hehh… ehh-hehh’ehh! etchh’tisshngxx!” He rocks forward, face pressed tightly into the junction of Aziraphale’s shoulder and neck. “ehh’etchhngx!” His body jerks and twitches with each sneeze, clenching tight around Aziraphale, drawing out everything he can as the angel spills inside him.

“Oh, oh Crowley,” Aziraphale pants and moans, riding out the waves of his orgasm, hips twitching with the intensity. “That was… are you… did you...” He licks his lips and smooths his hands over Crowley’s shuddering back as the demon sneezes once more, a small, weak, shuddering thing. “Oh Crowley,” Aziraphale sighs appreciatively. 

Bracing his hand around Crowley’s neck he gently rolls them both into a lying position and then drags himself free from between the demon’s slack legs, miracling away the sticky slick that follows. Crowley looks wrecked, spread out and debauched. He’s wheezing slightly, upper lip glistening and nose still sluggishly leaking, cheeks flushed high and bright. Aziraphale smooths a sweat-soaked strand of hair off Crowley’s forehead and lays a kiss there. 

He moves away but returns a moment later with a bowl of warm water with a soft flannel floating in it. Aziraphale wrings the cloth out and starts at Crowley’s forehead, cleaning the sweat away, gliding over the demon’s tired eyes and down to wipe up under his nose.

Crowley stretches lightly under Aziraphale's hands as the flannel eases over his sweat-slicked skin, down his neck, across his chest, and lower. His eyes, already rimmed pink and glassy, with the beginnings of dark smudges beneath them, tear a bit at the tender treatment. 

Aziraphale tuts softly and cups one hand around Crowley’s cheek. He leans down and caresses the demon’s overly warm lips with his own, the barest hint of a kiss. When he pulls back Crowley’s dressed in the soft pajamas, warm and dry and buoyed weightlessly by Aziraphale’s love. He relaxes against the pillow as he hears the angel mention something about tea and then there’s a cool flannel being draped across his forehead. He’s still not entirely sure what Aziraphale finds arousing about it all, but he’s seriously considering letting the angel do this every time he doesn't feel well, and maybe even when he does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1 The 1800s St James Park scene wasn’t overly complicated and, in fact, consisted entirely of Crowley passing Aziraphale a note that said ‘sex’ and then them buggering behind a bush, but halfway through Aziraphale had panted “duck penis” into Crowley’s ear and the demon's hips had stuttered to a stop. “W-what?” He had wheezed, unsure if he’d heard correctly while Aziraphale continued to grind lightly under him. “If you could… but only if you want to, of course!” With Aziraphale gazing up at him, glowing with sweat and adoration, he could hardly refuse. “If you’re sure…” and the whip-quick nodding combined with the tightening grip of the angel’s legs around his hips was all he needed. It turned into an interesting week-long foray into the animal kingdom.


	2. Chapter 2

In all fairness, Aziraphale _had_ told him he’d be bored to bits at the annual bookseller’s convention.

“I’ve got contacts set up all weekend, some very valuable manuscripts have become available.” Aziraphale had said while packing a pristine, ancient suitcase that he'd owned since the twenties. “I’m afraid I won’t have time for much else.”

Crowley, while draped over a chair and being a nuisance, had offered to steal the books for him instead. “Bit of a caper?” He winked slyly. “I’ll wear my turtleneck.”

Aziraphale had sighed, lips pursed disapprovingly. “Please don’t.”

Ten minutes in, Crowley mutters about getting a drink and leaves to skulk in a corner. He definitely does not make note of when he begins to skulk or pull out his mobile to clock in before remembering that he is no longer employed downstairs. Take the demon out of hell but not hell out of the demon, Crowley muses sardonically as he sips a tepid beverage that’s not nearly alcoholic enough for this amount of interpersonal drudgery. He watches Aziraphale network, pulling in humans with friendly-looking smiles and touches, a sweet lull before he strikes and, if Crowley remembers correctly, begins to viciously haggle.

He checks his watch. It’s only been half an hour and Crowley briefly scans the room, wondering if they’ve been trapped in some kind of villainous time hole. But, _apparently_ , time is moving normally. He gets another drink and goes to prowl the convention hall, poking in and out of various rooms, all stuffed with books and people and endless chatter. He has half a mind to head to their room and simply go unconscious until Aziraphale finishes, but fate provides him another, far more enticing, option as he passes a small gaggle of people, all wearing shirts and jumpers proclaiming in varying levels of wit their love of books, pressed close to a window.

“Weather’s gone a bit dodgy on us, Benny. Rain’s come in,” a lady snorts while knocking into a disappointed looking man wearing too much tweed. “Gonna catch cold just for some fancy nibbles, eh? Ruin your whole weekend?” The group cackles at Benny’s dour expression.

Crowley breezes past, thoughts simmering. Would be a real shame, that. Catching cold. _Ruining_ the whole weekend. He flicks his tongue over his lips and snaps his fingers. It was usually best to let nature decide when one came down with something, but Crowley had nudged things along a time or two since learning of Aziraphale’s, well, _fondness_. Made a nice surprise for his angel, traipsing into the bookshop when they hadn't seen each other in a while, all flushed and congested and ready to be cared for. Besides, they were at a hotel for hell's sake. This is what couples _did_ on holiday.

He dashes off a quick text to Aziraphale.

It's a fine start and by the time he reaches their room his nose is running and he can feel a slight pressure building behind his eyes.

Crowley flops on their bed and texts again.

Nothing too dramatic, just enough to pique Aziraphale's interest. He sniffs, scrubbing at his stuffy nose and closes his eyes to wait. Crowley can see how perfectly it will all play out. He'll get a worried text back and then assure Aziraphale that, really, he's fine… even though he won't be fine at all. His angel will check again and Crowley will demure, with maybe a small mention of how he's a tad sniffly. Just a taste to get Aziraphale a little hot under his tartan bow tie encircled collar.

Except Aziraphale doesn’t text back. Crowley chews on his bottom lip and texts again, an update. Upping the stakes, as it were.

He knows he shouldn’t be so impatient. Aziraphale is busy. And, really… it’s only been twenty minutes. Any moment now his phone will buzz and their fun can begin.

Flipping on the tv he cycles through the channels, pausing briefly to watch someone lose all their money on a quiz show, and then drags himself into the bathroom to blow his nose. When he comes back Aziraphale still hasn’t responded.

Crowley texts again.

He watches the rest of Bargain Hunt with a wad of tissues pressed under his nose before checking again. Nothing. Nada. Zero response. Crowley growls and tosses the phone aside so he can rub between his eyes. Now he’s got a headache, a nose that won’t stop running, and no Aziraphale.

Over an hour later Crowley is all but pacing their room. He’s moved onto adding provocative emojis to each text.

  
  


It’s like texting a brick wall. With the absence of Aziraphale’s rejoining concern and banter, Crowley begins to wonder if he looks slightly desperate. He stares at the screen, one long finger tapping along the edge, but, since a watched pot never boils, Aziraphale still doesn’t text back.

He shoves the phone in the nightstand drawer and takes another lap around the room. Turns the tv on and then immediately off again. Rolls across the bed and then splays out starfish style to stare at the ceiling until he can’t stand it anymore and sits up, fumbling the drawer open.

Still nothing. Squishing his nose back and forth roughly with one hand he sends yet another text. A big upgrade in the sexy language department. Crowley would never be so lewd unless it was an emergency.

“Let’s see him resist that,” Crowley mutters and then sneezes against his hand. “Nungh.” He flops bonelessly back against the pillows.

He tries again.

And again.

And one final time.

“Could ring him,” Crowley considers as he grips the phone, voice cracking with a rough snarl. “Suggest he read his bloody messages.” He sniffs wetly, thumb hovering over Aziraphale’s number. No, no, that’s far too impersonal for this kind of blatant disregard.

Instead, he grabs his jacket and scrutinizes his reflection in the mirror. Absolutely wretched. Pale, flushed, a little sweaty. And his nose… Crowley scrubs it harshly again for good measure, pleased at the way pinkens at the tip. Terrific. He also gives his hair an extra touch of artful disheveling just to top things off.

The convention area is just as crowded and noisy as before, but it grates on Crowley worse now, ears and skin and eyes all overly sensitive and prickly. He scans the crowd and eventually spots Aziraphale off to a side surrounded by a small array of humans, all animatedly discussing something. Rather rude, Crowley thinks as he watches the angel, having to go looking for rescue, beg for attention like some Dickensian street urchin.

He winds through the literary throng, slipping between pockets of busy people, and sidles up to Aziraphale, pointedly he clears his throat. “Angel, I-”

Aziraphale holds up a finger without even turning to look at him. “In a moment, Crowley.”

Oh, Crowley had been hoping that it wouldn’t come to this. He wanted to come down, let Aziraphale get a good look at him while quietly reminding the angel of the importance of checking his phone, and then haul himself back upstairs to resume his well thought out plan. But now… _well_.

Pulling back, Crowley fishes a handkerchief out of his pocket as his breath catches dramatically. “Hehh… Ishh’hetchh!” He turns away to bury his nose in the fabric. “Ehh’iiitshh!” He sneezes loudly, bordering on obnoxious and causing a pause the conversation.

The chorus of ‘bless you’s sting something fierce, but it was a risk he was forced to take. When Crowley glances up, nose still deep in the handkerchief Aziraphale is all but gaping at him, eyes burning with raging astonishment. “Ehh-shgnx!” He sneezes again and then sniffs. “‘Scuse me,” he mumbles as he scrubs under his nose, congestion heavy and obtrusive.

A middle-aged lady in a knitted jumper _hilariously_ proclaiming that her “weekend is booked” coos at him. “Oh dear, you don’t sound well at all.” The humans on either side of her nod in agreement.

Aziraphale’s eyes glint warningly. “Oh, I’m sure he’s _fine_ ,” he grinds out.

Crowley sniffles, pathetic and wet. “‘M sorry, angel…” He brings the handkerchief back up to blow. “Didn’t want to ruin the weekend,” he says from under the handkerchief. “But... ‘fraid I’m not feeling very well.”

“I see,” Aziraphale swallows, forcing an easy tone to his voice even though Crowley can see the back of his neck turning red. “Well, it’s hardly like you _made_ this happen.”

Shaking his head, Crowley turns aside to cough delicately into the cloth before tucking it away. “Tried to text you about it...” He makes it sound as weak and as lost as he can. Fully abandoned and uncared for, he is.

Aziraphale lips narrow into a thin line and there’s a twitch at the corner of one eye. “Oh dear,” he says, teeth clenched together as he brings his mobile out, eyes locked on Crowley’s even thoroughly hidden behind the shades. “I’ve had it on silent.” He drags his eyes down, flicking quickly through the missed texts, face heating up and throat bobbing. He jams the phone back into his pocket and puts a weighty hand against the small of Crowley’s back. “Afraid I must step out for a moment.” He very carefully does not look at anyone. “Excuse us. Toodle pip!”

Crowley sniffs, eyebrows knitted together morosely over the rim of his glasses. “Couldn’t be helped, angel,” he coughs as Aziraphale all but shoves him out of the room.

They step into a miraculously, Crowley presumes, empty lift just when another sneeze jolts him off balance. The hand on his back tightens as Aziraphale fists the fabric to keep Crowley upright. He sniffs again, wet and soggy, and rocks his finger under his nose to stem the flow.

“What,” Aziraphale says, voice barely on the edge of steady and hot against his ear, “is the matter with you?”

“‘S just a cold, I think,” Crowley shrugs dismissively before being brought up short by Aziraphale’s ever-tightening hold on his jacket.

There’s a long slow exhale that sounds like it’s through the angel’s nose. “You do realize this is a business trip, Crowley?” Aziraphale breathes, voice heavy and dangerous, thrumming with a furious excitement. “I have meetings, plans, arrangements that I can ill-afford to miss.”

Crowley’s stares straight ahead, heavy silence punctuated by a few wet sniffs. “I understand if you have more important-”

“No,” Aziraphale cuts him off, silky smooth and regretful, put upon in a delicious way that makes Crowley bite his lip in anticipation. “No, Crowley. I have been somewhat neglectful, haven’t I? You must be feeling so poorly.” He pulls his phone from his pocket. “All these texts…” He tuts, thumbing through them slowly, imagining Crowley sending each one. “You clearly need to be taken care of.”

His voice is sweetly sympathetic, belying the edge underneath, and Crowley swallows, feeling a heat begin to pool low in his belly.

The door to their room shuts with a decisive click of the lock. The sharp bite of it rings through Crowley’s head as he watches Aziraphale’s back expand with one long, slow, steadying breath before his shoulders straighten.

When he turns, Crowley nearly takes a step back, caught off guard by the fire in his angel’s eyes. He wants to say something, apologize maybe or plead forgiveness, but his nose twitches, nostrils flaring. “I,” his breath hitches. “I’m…” Crowley's hand slides towards his pocket, intending on pulling out a handkerchief.

“Don’t,” Aziraphale orders, quiet and sharp as he steps closer, pinning Crowley with his gaze. He fits his hand just under the demon’s chin, effectively holding him in place. “By the looks of it, I think you’ve abused your nose quite enough already.” He leans closer, watching the sluggish drip from one nostril. “You’re obviously unable to properly care for yourself, Crowley.” He pulls his own handkerchief from his jacket pocket. “I’ll have to do it for you,” he admonishes and dabs under Crowley’s reddened nose. The cloth scrapes along the inner edge of his septum and Crowley pulls back, the urge to sneeze overwhelming.

The hold on his jaw tightens and Crowley squirms, trapped in the angel’s grip. “Hehhsss…” he whines as Aziraphale continues to brush under his nose.

The angel arches an eyebrow at him. “Please don’t hold back, my dear,” he says, cooly concerned. “I’m right here.”

“Ehhh…hehh-ehht’SHH!” The first sneeze barrels out of him and then another, wetter, soaking the handkerchief. His knees wobble and he sags into Aziraphale’s hand.

“Oh dear.” Aziraphale wraps his arm around Crowley’s unsteady frame. “That didn’t sound good at all.” He leads them to the bed, lowering Crowley down before cleaning up under his nose. Another drippy sneeze slips out when Aziraphale dabs a little too lightly and the angel tsks. “My poor demon. Caught something rather terrible, haven't you?” He carefully removes Crowley’s glasses, setting them safely on the bedside table, the corners of his mouth turning down at the sight of the demon’s red-rimmed eyes.

Crowley sniffles in agreement, nose running dangerously and threatening another sneeze. He sniffs harder, pulling the trickle back up.

“There’ll be none of that, Crowley,” Aziraphale scolds, cupping his hand around Crowley’s nose. “I don’t want any more sniffling. It’s not good for you.” He gives the demon’s nose a light pinch. “You just let it come, my dear.”

Mulling over the implications of that, Crowley blows lightly. After another, sharper tweak of his nose and a pointedly raised eyebrow from Aziraphale, he blows again, harder this time, and then once more, even though there isn’t much left.

“Oh, good boy,” Aziraphale praises, beaming lovingly and wiping any lingering wetness from around Crowley’s nose. “That was well done.” He pats the demon on the shoulder and gives his upper arm a warm squeeze. Then, ignoring the pathetically needy whine Crowley makes, he strides across the room to rifle through their carefully put away luggage and pull out a pair of soft pajamas, this time with a dark red and black stripe pattern. Aziraphale makes a sharp noise when he turns and sees Crowley pulling off his jacket. “Crowley, dear, I do believe I said you were unable to properly care for yourself.” The demon freezes, arm halfway out of a sleeve, eyes wide and glittering and locked on Aziraphale as the angel glides back to him. He sets the pajamas down and eases his hands along Crowley’s shoulders, slipping the jacket off. “That I’d have to do everything for you,” he hisses, lips brushing against the shell of his ear.

Crowley’s breath shudders as Aziraphale continues to undress him, slowly and methodically. He doesn’t allow Crowley to do so much as lift an arm to help, adjusting the demon however he needs while Crowley focuses on being like putty in the angel’s hands.

“Do you think you can stand for me?” Aziraphale implores him with a gentle tug when it comes time to work the snug jeans off.

He barely nods before Aziraphale easily lifts him into a standing position and Crowley has to lock his knees to keep upright as Aziraphale’s fingers delicately graze his over-sensitive skin, an aching, leisurely hot trail down his thighs. He trembles, entire body shaking as he sinks back down at the angel’s command, naked and flushed and devastated at the sight of Aziraphale kneeling at his feet, guiding his legs free.

A few concerned and mollifying noises spill past Aziraphale’s lips as he plucks the pyjama bottoms off the bed and works them up Crowley’s legs. He doesn’t bother asking him to stand again, simply raises him enough to pull the waistband over his hips. “Poor thing,” Aziraphale sighs, wrapping the top around his shoulders and carefully maneuvering Crowley’s quivering hands through the sleeves. “Chills as well.” He cups Crowley’s face and rests his lips against the demon’s forehead. “You may have a fever,” he considers, pressing his lips against a different spot. “Can’t tell how high it is though.” He smooths his thumbs over where his lips touched, and then down to work between Crowley’s eyes, sweeping around the bridge of his nose.

“‘S okay,” Crowley sniffs, a thin trickle threatening to spill out as Aziraphale massages his sinuses.

Shaking his head, Aziraphale leans back. “No, it’s not.” He taps Crowley’s nose as a warning and pulls out a fresh handkerchief. “Please don’t make me remind you again,” he says sweetly as he folds the cloth around his nose.

Crowley swallows down a snappy comeback, jaw working for a moment before he blows, warmth cascading over him when Aziraphale smiles encouragingly.

“Now, on the subject of your fever,” Aziraphale begins, snapping his fingers. A glass thermometer with a suspiciously blunt tip materializes in his hand. “Let’s see what we’re dealing with, hm? I do hope it’s not too high,” he sighs dramatically, watching the demon‘s eyes widen briefly and then narrow as he realizes exactly what his angel is holding.

"Azir-" Crowley's mouth clicks shut at a sharp look.

“This way is far more accurate, my dear,” Aziraphale states, authoritative and confident, mouth quirking up at the corner. “You do want it to be accurate, don't you?”

Crowley squirms, anticipation pooling between his legs, tongue flicking out to wet his lips, mouth dry. "But--"

" _Precisely_ the idea," Aziraphale grins, shaking the thermometer down with a few smart flicks of his wrist while he rolls his other hand. “On your stomach, please.” When there’s no compliance from the demon Aziraphale sighs. “I don’t want to ask again, Crowley.”

Crowley doesn’t move. ‘’S just…” Crowley’s eyes dart between Aziraphale and the thermometer and the bed before dropping to the floor, fingers worrying the fabric of his pajama bottoms.

Aziraphale softens. He lifts Crowley’s chin and waits until their eyes meet. “You can always say-” but he’s cut off with a whip-quick shake of Crowley’s head.

“Not,” Crowley huffs. “I’m not… just thought… on the _bed_ , angel?” he whines, bottom lip threatening to work its way into a pout and Aziraphale chuckles.

“Ah, of course,” he smiles, dropping a kiss onto the top of Crowley’s head. “Forgive me, my dear.” He shakes himself, a quick wiggle that pulls him back and sets his shoulders more sternly. "Now," he says thoughtfully, finger trailing under Crowley’s chin. "After all that fussing, I believe you may need a more… _hands on_ approach." He sits primly on the edge of the bed and pats his lap, trying not to smile at the hungry eagerness in Crowley’s eyes.

Crowley hurries to hook his fingers into his waistband but one look from Aziraphale stills his hands and he slithers forward instead, draping himself across the angel’s lap and letting Aziraphale position him the way he’d like.

The angel delicately runs a hand down the length of Crowley’s spine, allowing him a moment to relax. “Poor dear,” he tsks, hand resting against the demon’s buttocks. “So unwell.” He slides the waistband down just enough to not be indecent and expertly spreads his cheeks with one hand.

Crowley buries his face into his folded arms and shivers, the cool air of the room gliding over the naked skin. He hears Aziraphale snap a miracle and can only hope that it was some lube.

“Only cold for a bit,” Aziraphale chirps as he touches the tip of the thermometer to Crowley’s exposed hole. He pushes and the demon groans, curling towards him. “It’s not that bad, Crowley,” he assures, easing the slicked tube inside, twisting and adjusting as it slides deeper.

“S terrible.” Crowley’s hips bump against Aziraphale’s thigh, working into a somewhat steady rhythm. “H-hate it,” he moans as Aziraphale twirls the glass rod, quiet, breathy mewls slipping out every time the thermometer moves.

Aziraphale snorts. “Hmm, yes. We may need to work on your acting then,” he mutters and Crowley gives an exaggerated groan. In retaliation, Aziraphale settles his hand around the demon’s taut butt cheeks and gives them a squeeze.

Crowley hisses, arching back into Aziraphale’s hand. “Angel,” he groans again, needy and real.

Aziraphale gives the scant handful of flesh another squeeze, massaging until Crowley begins to relax against him again, lulled by the gentle rhythm. Carefully he works one finger farther down, caressing the smooth, hidden stretch of the perineum, stopping before he brushes against Crowley’s balls and then coming back up.

Crowley lets out a pleased little huff and spreads his legs wider, matching Aziraphale’s movements. When the angel presses a little harder Crowley grunts, breath catching at the sensation of being rubbed deeper than where Aziraphale’s finger currently is. He’s almost lost in the pleasure, dazed and floating when a prickle in his nose brings him back. “Hngg,” he grunts and lazily scrubs his nose against his arm.

Aziraphale scratches a nail against the sensitive expanse of skin as a warning after Crowley snuffles wetly, breath stuttering as he tries to rub the itch from his nose. “I do suggest you stop squirming, Crowley.” He rests his free hand lightly between the demon's shoulder blades.

Crowley’s breath hitches again. “C-can’t help it. Nose is… ‘M gonna… hehh...”

“You will not,” Aziraphale orders. “Think of the mercury,” he advises. “The shattered glass. These old thermometers can be quite fragile, you know.”

Crowley scrapes his steadily leaking nose against the bedsheet and forces himself not to sniff. “Aziraphale,” he whines, the hot itch burning in his nose, dragging him closer to the edge.

Aziraphale squeezes the back of his neck. “You can hold it, Crowley.” When the demon whines again, breath shuddering, Aziraphale slides his hand down, fitting one finger under his nose and pressing firmly up, slowing the flow and forcing Crowley to breathe through his mouth. “Only a minute more,” he promises, rubbing his finger back and forth, helping to quell the itch.

Crowley wriggles, a full body squirm, unable to concentrate on one sensation. His sinuses tingle and itch, Aziraphale is unwavering in the perineum massage, and his dick is achingly hard.

Finally, _finally_ , and Crowley’s almost positive that it’s been more than a minute, Aziraphale stops stroking and gives the thermometer one last twirl as he pulls it free.

“There we go,” Aziraphale murmurs smoothly. “Let me get the handkerchief before you-”

“Hehh… hnghh...” Crowley jerks his head up. “Heh’ehhptch!” His whole body clenches with the force of the sneeze, rocking him against Aziraphale. “Ehh’txnghh! Ugh,” he groans, wiping his nose on the back of his wrist. “Sorry.” He sags back down with a soggy sniffle.

“Oh Crowley,” Aziraphale chides. “What am I going to do with you?” He leaves the demon to sprawl, unattended to, across his lap, and takes his time reading the line on the thermometer. “Nearly 39,” he hums. “That _is_ a bit of a temperature, isn’t it?”

“Mmph,” says Crowley, head resting against a folded forearm while his other arm dangles languidly off the bed. His breath wheezes, mouth slack with the inability to breathe through his nose because of how clogged and dripping it is. Under his belly, he can feel Aziraphale’s own erection growing harder and more insistent every time he shifts against it.

Aziraphale sends the thermometer away and tugs up the pajama bottoms before leaning over to peer at Crowley’s face. “Look at you,” he sighs, retrieving the handkerchief from the nightstand. He dries his sneeze sprayed hand first before wiping roughly under Crowley’s sluggishly leaking nose. “Made such a mess by not waiting.”

Crowley shifts, pulling away from the callous treatment. “Tried, angel,” he murmurs, sliding back, dragging the length of himself over Aziraphale’s lap as he stands. “Couldn’t help myself.”

Glancing at the obvious erection Crowley’s sporting, now at the angel’s eye level and only barely covered by the pajamas, Aziraphale quirks an eyebrow. “You obviously couldn’t.” He stands, matching Crowley’s questioning look with a positively devilish smirk before sweeping the demon off his feet. “You’re far too ill to be standing, my dear,” he says, cutting off Crowley’s protest. “I believe you may have to stay in bed all weekend.” He lays Crowley down, making sure his head is resting at a good angle on the pillows. Then he sits back down, hand brushing over the growing wet spot darkening the fabric of his bottoms, waiting for Crowley to regain his bearings. “Did you know,” he queries as he works the waistband over Crowley’s leaking dick. “That orgasms can boost your immune system?”

“Really?” Crowley grunts. “Huh. Imagine that.” He waits for Aziraphale to slide the pajamas the rest of the way down, but Aziraphale stops at his thighs. “Aziraphale please,” Crowley groans, spreading his legs as wide as he can.

“You could certainly use it, couldn’t you?” Aziraphale purrs, fingers skimming over his hips before circling around the base of his cock. “You’ve been catching so many colds lately. I do worry about you, Crowley.” He drags his fingertips across the fragile skin of the demon’s balls.

Crowley’s hips tilt, chasing the feeling, thighs straining against the restrictive pajama material. “Maybe you need to-” he smirks, hand snaking towards Aziraphale’s lap “-take my temperature again.” His fingers nearly reach their mark before Aziraphale’s iron-strong fingers wrap around his wrist and pin his hand to the bed.

The angel shakes his head at the stuffy suggestion. “Oh, dear. I’m afraid not. You’re far too sensitive back here.” Voice absolutely _dripping_ with concern, Aziraphale slips his finger down to teasingly rub against the demon’s slick hole. “The thermometer was such an awful ordeal for you, I can’t possibly see you taking anything larger.”

Crowley scoots down, rutting against Aziraphale’s circling finger. “I think I’m, mmpgh, more relaxed now, angel.”

Aziraphale pulls his finger away. “No, no... something a little less tasking is in order.” He wraps his hand around Crowley’s shaft and lightly strokes, watching as the demon arches into the grip, hips stuttering and rolling. “I need you to relax, Crowley. Let me take care of you.”

Thighs trembling, Crowley slowly lowers back down to the bed, forcing himself to stay still as Aziraphale works him at a traitorously lazy pace. He gasps, rolling his head against the pillows when Aziraphale’s hand meanders to his stomach, rucking his pajama top up to expose more tender, pale skin. The angel’s fingers swirl around sweetly, just firm enough to not exactly tickle. “Please, a-angel,” Crowley rasps, voice cracking as he begs, desperate for Aziraphale to move his attention lower.

“Oh my,” says Aziraphale, hand moving back to his dick, a softly firm grip at the base. “That doesn’t sound good. A sore throat on top of everything else.” He smiles sympathetically at Crowley. “I think it would be best if you saved your voice for now.”

“Azira--” Crowley groans into the name.

The angel releases his hold on Crowley's wrist and hooks a finger under the demon’s chin, pressing up until his mouth closes. “Shhh…” He trails his fingers down Crowley’s neck until they come to rest lightly against his collarbone. “That’s better, isn’t it?”

Crowley groans, shifting against the mattress.

"I thought we agreed that you shouldn't be talking right now." Aziraphale growls, wrapping his hand around Crowley’s throat, the pressure light but unyielding.

“‘M not,” he mumbles and sniffs, halfway to too far gone to remember all the rules. The hand on his dick tightens and Crowley snaps his mouth shut in a valiant attempt to swallow a moan. After a moment, Aziraphale resumes his slow, steady pace, ignoring the way Crowley trembles with need. Every so often he ghosts his fingers over Crowley’s quivering stomach or palms the tip of his dick to slick the shaft.

Every thought Crowley has is focused on not giving in and thrusting mindlessly into Aziraphale’s fist. He’s barely aware of his nose streaming, slicking down over his upper lip, until it tickles and he drags a hand up to rub under his nose. He’s stopped by Aziraphale’s firm hand.

“You leave your nose alone, Crowley,” Aziraphale warns. He pointedly sets Crowley's hand back on the bed. “The poor thing,” he sighs, dragging one finger around a flaring, chapped nostril. He scrapes a fingernail up the middle of Crowley’s septum, ending with a featherlight flick to the tip, while his other hand continues to work the demon’s cock with firm, long strokes. “It’s very sensitive, isn’t it?”

Nostrils twitching, Crowley pants and wheezes and groans, low and at the back of his throat.

Aziraphale glides his index finger down the bridge and then miracles up a handkerchief. “So much congestion,” he muses, blotting while Crowley scrunches and huffs. “Look, you’ve practically soaked through this kerchief.” He deftly refolds it one handed and works a corner along the inside of each nostril. “Such a bad cold. Can’t seem to stop leaking, can you?” His other thumb brushes over Crowley’s dripping cock slit.

Crowley squirms, eager and aching and desperate, his whole body taut and quivering. He just needs a little more, but Aziraphale is as calm and steady as ever, holding his release just out of reach. He wants to beg, to plead, to reverently spill his angel’s name over and over until he truly has no voice left. But he can’t. He won’t. The way Aziraphale gazes at him, all that love and adoration and devotion. Crowley refuses to risk that. Not even if it gets him to completion.

He mouths the name instead. “Aziraphale,” he says. Wordless. Soundless. “Aziraphale.” His eyelids flutter when the angel gasps and his hand speeds up. “Aziraphale.” His breath hitches when the handkerchief edges a little deeper, sparking a heavy, flaming itch.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale moans above him, sounding just as reverent and adoring as Crowley feels.

His whole body is one bright, inescapable point of brilliance that stretches into eternity and flares out in an instant, the echoing waves crashing over him with fading intensity as he falls slack against the bed.

“hehh... Ehh’ttCHH!” He sneezes as Aziraphale draws out the last, shuddering, spurts of come from his increasingly sensitive prick. “Ehh-ihh’shgnxx,” he sighs through another, shuddery, damp sneeze.

“There you go, “ Aziraphale whispers fondly, wiping delicately under his nose, careful not to irritate the tender skin. “That’s it. You’ve done so well, Crowley.” He presses a kiss to the demon’s warm forehead. “So well…”

Crowley sinks into the darkness, letting his eyes slip shut. Hearing only his own heavy, labored breathing and Aziraphale’s soft, continuous, praise. Feeling only the angel’s gentle hands as they clean him up and tuck him away.

Aziraphale rolls him to slip the blankets from under him and then back to cover him up, voice tenderly explaining as he goes, adoringly murmuring about how well Crowley’s doing even though he’s entirely limp and fairly useless.

He rouses briefly when Aziraphale lifts him, fluffing another pillow behind him and whispering about tea. The rim of a cup presses to his lips and he flicks his tongue out tasting warmth and sweetness and comfort. Aziraphale encourages him to drink, tilting the cup so the liquid flows slowly enough that Crowley, dazed and pliant as he is, doesn’t choke. A soft stream of praise washes over him again, full of love, assuring him that he’s good, so very good. Then he’s laid back down, covered and tucked, cocooned in a cloud. As he drifts off Crowley feels his angel's weight behind him, wrapping around him, holding him safe and close and secure.

He hears Aziraphale moving around before he opens his eyes. Bustling, Crowley thinks. His angel is bustling around the room. And then, Azirpahale’s voice, soft and gentle... and speaking about, rather than to, Crowley.

Crowley cracks an eye open, blearily focusing on Aziraphale’s back as the angel stands over a table in the corner of the room, hands busy. “Oh yes,” Aziraphale says with a soft laugh. His head is tilted against his shoulder and Crowley perks up when he realizes that Aziraphale is on his mobile. “I’m sure he’ll be… yes, yes… well, he’s had quite the fever.” The demon sinks down into the blankets, face heating up.

“No, just a bad cold I would say,” Aziraphale informs some entirely random stranger as far as Crowley’s concerned. “Quite sniffly, the poor dear.” He turns, holding a tray with a bowl on it, head still tilted, keeping the phone securely between his ear and shoulder. “I’ve found him enough tissues, yes. Thank you though,” he says brightly, although his eyes are locked on Crowley’s and screaming murderous intent. “Oh yes, ordered in. Chicken, of course.” He sets the tray down on the nightstand and eases the phone from his shoulder. He puts one hand on his hip, staring down at Crowley, entirely unamused while his voice is still as charming and sweet as ever. “I’ll pass along the well wishes, yes… yes yes, Room number 305. See you then!” He hangs up and shoves the phone into his pocket.

“Angel,” Crowley hisses, betrayal and humiliation curling hotly inside him.

“Oh no, that was hardly my fault, Crowley,” Aziraphale sniffs, all priss and proper. He folds down the bedspread and helps Crowley sit up against a pile of pillows. “I certainly wasn’t the one who flounced around in public making an atrocious scene.” He positions himself on the edge of the bed and picks up the bowl of soup. “You know how nosy some humans are.” He offers Crowley a spoonful of broth and the demon has the good sense to not argue about it. “I’ll have to be answering questions about your health all weekend.”

“‘M sorry, angel,” Crowley mumbles around a bit of chicken.

“You should be.” Aziraphale wiggles and eases another spoonful into Crowley’s mouth. “Having to assure them that we’ll be having nice, quiet evenings together, making sure you get your rest,” he sighs, looking absolutely aggrieved and put out. “And of course,” he adds, eyes darkening. “I'll have to have constant updates about your condition while I’m out.” He glances over to the nightstand.

There Crowley sees his mobile, a fresh stack of handkerchiefs, and a thermometer. He swallows and tries not to suffocate himself on a noodle. “Constant…” he wheezes, eyes coming back to see a wickedly pleased smile on Aziraphale’s face.

“I’m sure you’re up to it,” the angel hums. He leans forward and brushes his lips against Crowley’s in a chaste kiss that he barely allows the demon to deepen before pulling away. “You were so good for me before, weren’t you, Crowley?”

“Hnghh,” Crowley says, nodding.

“And you’re going to be good for me for the rest of the weekend?” He waits for another nod before leaning in again.

Crowley only just gets a decent taste of angel lips when Aziraphale’s phone buzzes and he pops up, hastily depositing the bowl of soup on the nightstand and dropping a kiss onto Crowley's still too warm forehead. “Must be off, I’m afraid.” He doesn’t sound at all disappointed about it.

Crowley watches him grab a few things and sling a satchel over his shoulder. “You’re really goin’, then?” He asks, a hint of a whine creeping up. “While I’m still so terribly unwell?” He coughs faintly for effect.

Aziraphale clucks his tongue. “A very rare manuscript, Crowley,” he reminds the demon. “I’ll be back in a few hours. Do try to get some rest, my dear. You sound absolutely dreadful.” He stops when he reaches the door. “And remember, I have my mobile on if there’s anything you need to tell me.”

Crowley watches him leave and then wriggles himself down into his cozy nest of blankets. He gives Aziraphale a good count, enough to get to the lift and out again, halfway down a hallway… Crowley grabs his phone, sniffles, and begins to type. Not such a boring weekend after all.


End file.
